


crash and burn (i guess i never learn)

by pen_light



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season 13 Castiel/Dean Winchester Reunion, Song fic, but inspired by the canon, night train guns n roses, not exactly canon, with a different take on it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 08:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15968576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pen_light/pseuds/pen_light
Summary: Song: Nighttrain, GNRDean wonders if he’s ever going to learn. It’s a cycle with him. A trend. Love leads to death—and it’s never his own. And then death leads to chaos.When John Winchester died, Dean shattered a car. He was attempting to fix the car, but, in the flurry of emotions struck by the fact that he couldn’t say his dad (and the fact that the one and only thing his dad did for him was die), he smashed a car.When Sam Winchester was close to death (on many occasions), Dean shattered the world (multiple times). Again, he tried to fix the situations. There was always a way, Dean would say. There was always a way. It was a mantra, a sick mantra too. It was one that fixated Dean and drove him to limits he never thought he’d reach (limits he never wanted to reach).When Castiel died, Dean shattered himself. The pieces were already put together haphazardly from the multitude of agonizing events prior to Cas’ death. But, as the angel took his last breath, there was an instant where each and every scaffolding gave way. Dean tried to retain the crash, the explosion, keeping it all locked up in himself.He tried his best.





	crash and burn (i guess i never learn)

**Author's Note:**

> hello! 
> 
> this is my fic for the 2018 DeanCas Mixtape. the song it's inspired by is "nighttrain" by guns n roses (my favorite from my favorite gnr album). i suggest you listen to that while reading this. 
> 
> also i'm sorry if it's a little weird (including the spacing ughhhh). as usual, i'm always dealing with ever changing schedules and health (sickness and panic attacks rip)
> 
> i hope you enjoy it though!

There are these moments in life where certain securities shatter. That what was once thought safe, established, invincible, becomes the very piece that dangles tauntingly right in plain view; all that is it’s true nature shining in the pure, galant vulnerable gleam. 

 

That moment is nearly incomprehensible. _Written in the words, the situation is plainly accepted_. Laced in emotions, the situation is turbulently mismatched, wrecking havoc whenever and wherever it decides to rattle the individual. 

 

Castiel walked out of that rift that night. He was breathing. At least, he took in a few heaves of breaths, whether it be needed or not, providing that unquestioned sign of life. 

 

Dean had seen Castiel walk out. A major part of him was relieved—happy even. The mere seconds spent in rebalancing himself from Sam’s push and turning around to stare at the rip until the angel walked out took out that unquestioned sign of life right from his chest. 

 

Thus, when Cas breathed, Dean did as well. 

 

In. And out. 

 

In. And out. 

 

In. And out. 

 

In went the blade. And out came the light. 

 

In went Dean’s breath. And out? 

 

Well. 

 

Out came the sound of a shatter. 

 

 

 

_Loaded like a freight train_

 

Dean Winchester really tries his best. He really does. 

 

Protecting the universe, saving the living things, taking care of his brother, oh, and, living a humane life—all of which aren’t exactly the easiest things to accomplish in the world. Each task is equally capable of overwhelming Dean at any given time. In fact, they have. Multiple times. 

 

Nevertheless, he tries his best. Even when he isn’t up to it. 

 

Following Castiel’s death and his mom’s death (disappearance), it was a flurry of action with minimal conscious thought. First Jack, then the police station, then Jack again, and then the pyre. Work after work, Dean lugged around, finishing the tasks one by one. 

Emotions rushed to him, radiating from Sam, Jack, and practically the whole world. Dean pushed them down, somehow managing to accept the situation for just what it is and was (or so he thought. Dean’s easily fooled by himself.) 

 

Unconscious thoughts weren’t the _friendliest_ at that moment. Dean reluctantly allowed them to crash and burn for _mere_ moments, in the brief windows in which he was most vulnerable. (More accurately, in the windows he thought about Cas). 

 

But then came the cremation. 

 

“Goodbye Cas.” The selfish words were meant more for himself than they were for Castiel. Because that was it. Thoughts no more, Dean had to close the box. He had to try his best. (Castiel died trying his best, didn’t he?) 

 

Lock and key. That’s what worked best, right? 

 

He’s got Jack to worry about. And probably a thousand other problems in the future. 

 

He needs to try his best. And that means to lock up that pandora’s chest he’s got encapsulated in his heart. 

 

Lock and key. Giving it his best. Even when he isn’t up to it. That’s what he’s got to do. That’s what he’s going to do. 

 

That’s what has already worked anyways. 

 

Relatively. 

 

_Flying like an aero plane_

_Feelin' like a space brain_

 

Dean’s on a sudden high. He’s sitting in his room in the bunker. There’s a pair of headphones on his ears, blaring chords, riffs, and drums. The volume is enough to supersede his hearing and simply pound the bass into his head. 

 

Maybe it’s the mayhem caused by the music and volume combined that’s shooting him up so tall. Maybe it’s something else. 

 

Dean doesn’t know. And neither does he care. 

 

He doesn’t care—and that’s all he’s caring about, wrapped in this haze. Time ticks by, Sam deals with Jack, and Dean doesn’t care. He’s ready for every worse case scenario. 

 

Just now, however, now, he’s floating, falling, and flying all at the same time. 

 

And Dean thinks he’s trying his best. Locked and keyed, right?

 

He probably wasn’t. That’s how Castiel died, isn’t it? 

 

But, again, he doesn’t care. Dean doesn’t need to care, right? All he’s got to do is thoroughly enjoy his spontaneous, unprompted space brain. 

 

The music changes. And Dean can’t tell if it’s Zeppelin or AC-DC or some other band. 

 

(Dean doesn’t ever remember flying like this. Then again, the only times he’s flown comfortably were the times with Cas, and even then, those were quite uncomfortable. Dean’s not sure. He’s enjoying it, despite the distorted confusion. 

 

(He wishes Castiel’s able to fly this again. Wherever he is.)

 

_One more time tonight_

 

Highs and lows. Dean feels heavy and light at the same time. He’s grounded but soaring. Everything’s making sense, but Dean can’t remember why or not what premise. 

 

It’s just a fact. It’s all a fact. Facts aren’t questioned. (Castiel is dead.) And so Dean doesn’t. 

 

He’s walking around, holding things, putting things away, saying things. There’s a sense of comprehension in these actions, but Dean’s unable to remember those moments at all. (He’s vaguely remembering _that_ moment.) 

 

What comes in as information, leaves into, well, whatever. 

 

Dean’s fine. Dean’s always fine. 

 

He’s trying his best. It isn’t hard (although, Dean supposes, it has begun to feel that way). 

 

It’s what he’s always done. 

 

Day by day. (Castiel isn’t there.)

 

Night by night. (Castiel isn’t always there.)

 

One more time. (And now he never will be).

 

_Look out!_

 

 

 

 

 

_Well I'm a west coast struttin'_

_One bad mother_

_Got a rattlesnake suitcase_

_Under my arm_

 

They’re on the road. Sam, Dean, and Jack. Typical. 

 

The cottage Jack was born in is a whiles away from the bunker (leave it to Cas to do that), entailing a night in, long rides, and a whole lot of gears to turn. 

 

Donatello meets up with them. Even with his prophetic wisdom, Jack remains an enigma (to Sam at least. To Dean, he’s no less of a threat than the devil). There are some incidents (outbursts) and then they’re back on the road. 

 

Coast to coast. That’s how Dean’s made it so far in his life. No stability, no establishment. Nothing settles. Everything’s on the go. The entropy in his life is in a constant peaked state (expending all of his energy all at once, bringing the equilibrium point so close, threatening that endless stop). 

 

Jack’s in the back and Sam is tense. Dean knows Sam feels for the kid (for why, he doesn’t understand). Dean knows he should give Sam a break. His best friend also died and their mom just disappeared (died) in front of their eyes. 

 

But Dean can’t afford to act sympathetic. That would mean twisting that lock and taking out the key even for a brief moment. 

 

And the key isn’t the strongest, either. Dean’s hyperaware of it (yet, he can’t pinpoint why _that_ is, per se). 

 

Dean can’t afford to not try his best. 

 

Sam’s a big boy. He’s seen Dean like this his entire life. The younger is probably just used to it. 

 

As for Jack, the kid deserves it. Just at that thought, Dean throws back a look and let’s himself loose for a bit. Jack’s leaning against the window, practically curled in on himself. For some reason, hot anger flares through Dean. (He thinks of Cas.)

 

Yeah. The kid deserves it. 

 

The older hunter then shifts his vision back to the road, rolling his shoulders, mentally yelling at himself to “Lock it up!”. 

 

Dean’s not going to break. His locked up emotional suitcase thumps from the inside. 

 

Dean will not break. 

 

 

 

 

 

_Said I'm a mean machine_

 

Dean’s different. At least, Sam’s acting that way. The older didn’t expect Sam to really approach the behavior in any way. Or react for that matter. Again, Dean’s been acting this way probably as far back as in the womb (an exaggeration with an ounce of truth in it. When was the last time Dean gave himself a break?). 

 

Being in the bunker serves no solace, no peace. Which is strange because hell, it’s an isolated, impeccably hidden getaway. Yet, even then, with whatever shit seems to be going around, Dean can hardly bring himself to peace within the dark, brown walls. 

 

(He’s seeing Cas in the walls. In front of them, against them, around them— Dean’s seeing Castiel inside the cavities created by the walls). 

 

Strange. Confinement within his own room and tunes isn’t working. The high won’t come back. His key seems to be weakening. 

 

Dean’s antsy. He’s getting restless. All this sitting around isn’t, well, sitting well with him. He needs to move. He needs to act. He needs to run. He needs to flee. He needs to scre—

 

He needs to feel free. (Castiel’s standing right at the door, his back turned towards him.)

 

And in the bunker, he doesn’t feel free. (Castiel disappears). 

 

 

_Been drinking’ gasoline_

 

Baby. She’s always been Dean’s number one. His number one in many occasions. _Many_ occasions. 

 

And so a restless Dean slips into his perfectly shaped crease within the leather driver’s seat. His hands grip onto the steering wheel, rolling around the grips, getting a feel for the ride. 

 

Dean’s still moving around, his muscles tightening, his knee acting up, as if he’s about to run. The crease in the seat feels a little too low, maybe a little misaligned. Dean shifts in the seat, growing more and more frustrated as he does so. 

 

He sighs and closes his eyes, trying to find that road crazed zen he’s managed to persistently channel in that very dip in the leather. 

 

Nothing. 

 

The green eyed hunter’s gaze falls to his side, lingering onto the passenger seat. 

 

Sam isn’t the first person that comes to mind. And it lingers just a little longer. 

 

Cursing under his breath, Dean suddenly lets go, his hands clenching at the air. His head falls forward onto the steering wheel. The horn blares. Dean grips onto his hair and pulls. Hard. 

 

One. Two. Three. Dean counts. One. Two. Three. 

 

Slowly, he lets go. His spine curves back, away from fetal position. His hands let go. The horn stops. 

 

Dean breathes (it’s strangely harder to do so). He looks to his side again. 

 

Again, it’s not Sam he thinks of. 

 

And he sighs in pure desperation. He think’s he’s going to say something. He thinks he wants to say something. 

 

But the words don’t come. 

 

Dean doesn’t try again.

 

Instead he turns the ignition and allows the roar of Baby’s engine to talk for him. 

 

_And honey you can make my motor hum_

 

 

 

 

 

_I got one chance left_

_In a nine live cat_

_I got a dog eat dog sly smile_

 

It just dawns on Dean. 

 

Quite literally. 

 

Seated atop Baby’s hood, clad in the makeshift pajamas (t-shirt and flannel pants), the thought just dawns upon Dean. 

 

Life. _“Life”_ occurs to him. 

 

It’s existential to say the least. It’s eye opening at most. 

 

What is life? What is the purpose? Was it loss? Was it victory? 

 

Could it be nothing? (Somehow Dean doubts this, the key struggling.) 

 

What does it mean to be incomplete? Dean’s got everything. Everything his humanistic materialism could ask for. 

 

What is missing? (He doesn’t dare acknowledge it. The answer’s already roaming around in his head.). 

 

(He can’t acknowledge it. Acknowledgement means that something’s real.) 

 

Dean feels a buzz in his back pocket. Eyes closed, he takes another breath, somehow letting part of the tension leave his body. Something more relaxing yet more sinister enters in with the next breath. It’s soothing, save the slight itch in the back of Dean’s mind. It’s acceptable, and that’s all Dean needed. 

 

He looks at his phone. It’s Sam. 

 

_Hey. There’s another case. I think it’ll be fine if we go on our own. It’s just a day out._

 

Dean sighs. The ease settles. Acknowledgement is left to yet another day. 

 

This was probably Dean’s last chance to make something out of “life” (not the case, per se, but in general). With the angels running low and into hiding, the king of Hell dead, Lucifer dead, a measly child seemed like an end (make this better). In all realness, this particular “catastrophe” seemed like a feeble start to an end. A last “end of the world”. Perhaps, with Jack taken care of, Dean will be able to rest.

 

Properly. 

 

Permanently. 

 

 

 

 

_I got a Molotov cocktail_

_With a match to go_

_I smoke my cigarette with style’_

 

And the hunt begins. There’s a bottle involved to commemorate the start of it. There’s a bottle involved to continue the fight in the middle. There are many more bottles involved at the end of the hunt. 

 

Dean is a regular drinker. He’s known well for his tolerance and avid passion for inebriation. 

 

Dean is also an emotional idiot. He’s known well for his intolerance and constant constipation with emotions. 

 

Putting two and two together couldn’t be easier than it already is. This was also quite regular. 

 

The hunt goes down okay. There’s a scratch, there’s a drop of blood. 

 

But the brothers are relatively unscathed. On the physical level. 

 

Sam’s heart is bleeding. Dean’s heart is struggling. 

 

The younger know he needs to make a move. All the older seems to do is make the wrong moves. 

 

Another cocktail. Perhaps a cigarette (a drunken impulse).

 

Sam wants to hope it’ll go away. 

 

But he knows all too well, it gets worse from here. 

 

(The key struggles even more. The lock is wearing down fast.)

 

Dean gets worse from here. 

 

_An I can tell you honey_

_You can make my money tonight_

 

It’s night. Dead in the night.

 

Dean’s twirling his keys around his right index finger, a slow whistle slipping through his lips. There’s a strut in his step. The pregame from the bunker pushes itself through his bloodstream. 

 

There’s a door. It’s a rather small, worn down door, placed towards the right half of a large, graffitied brick wall. It’s got a torn up, droopy, red awning ordaining the sad, pathetic door. 

 

Dean’s never been here before. It’s a little further than the the bunker compared to the other bars he normally finds himself in. 

 

Dean’s not sure how he’s got himself here. Somehow he didn’t want to go to the other ones, even though those are the bars he always makes sure to bring his friends (loved ones) to on the premise that they were “A-list joints”. 

 

(Castiel’s always there. Dean knows because he can see that stupid, hideous trench coat in the masses dancing on the floor.)

 

Dean’s in the mood for something new.

 

He opens the door, his gaze immediately falling past the bouncer and onto the bar scene. 

 

It’s quiet, save a few men lazily drinking beer. There are some dancers and strippers in the mix, but it’s not overly extravagant. The dance floor is still relatively empty, and with a quick scan, Dean can’t seem to find beige. 

 

Perfect. 

 

(It’s funny, though. Castiel was never one to dance on the floor.)

 

 

_Wake up late_

_Honey put on your clothes_

_Take your credit card_

_to the liquor store_

 

Dean wakes up in Baby. Someone else does too. Dean doesn’t hear them, whoever they may be. His head is pounding and he’s craving for ferment. 

 

The voice of the person coos a little too suggestively. Dean let’s out a forced chuckle, waving them away. He slaps out his credit card, asking the person to bring something for him to drink. 

 

The voice asks a question Dean can relatively resonate with. (There’s no beige, Dean’s hazy mind is capable of recognizing that much, at least.)

 

“Lite or hard?” 

 

Dean actually laughs at that. 

 

(The key’s really having a hard time staying locked. It’s strange, for Dean never set the locking system to his heart as a color code).

 

“Hard.” 

 

(He’s just going to have to lock the color too. Forget it. Lose it. Whatever it takes.)

 

 

_That's one for you and_

_two for me by tonight_

 

Dean’s day begins with another round in Baby, a shit ton of beer, and a shaky escape of the bar. Sam calls once or twice, but then gives up knowingly. Instead, the younger sends a text. 

 

_Wherever you are or were, I’m not going to question. Just be careful and take care of what you have to._

 

(And come back soon. Sam had quickly backspaced the last part right before he sent the message.) 

 

Sometimes Dean just really loves Sam. Like really, really loves him—a platonic, familial love that for once isn’t driven by his “big brother” instincts. 

 

This is one of the moments. 

 

(Something breaks. Something leaks.)

 

Something splatters on Dean’s phone screen. It’s a tear. 

 

Dean chokes on his breath. His chest is suddenly tight and there’s blood rushing to his head too fast. He’d reach for another bottle, but his hands are too shaky to get a proper grip. 

 

Instead he blares his music. 

 

He can feel the high begin to return. His heart beats loudly to the beats of the bass and drums. His blood remains hot and rushed against his skin, instigating hot and cold flashes everywhere. 

 

Dean looks up, in front of him. 

 

He almost starts to cry. (Tears aren’t crying. They’re just a physical reaction. Crying requires emotional effort.) 

 

Maybe that bottle is worth the shaky hands. 

 

And Dean reaches. 

 

(Beige. Dean sees beige against a dark asphalt road.)

 

 

 

 

_I'll be loaded like a freight train_

_Flyin' like an aeroplane_

_Feelin' like a space brain_

 

The moments following shattered securities are confusing. The taunts that dangle right in plain view are harder to acknowledge than all that does not matter. The gleam of the natural sheen of these attributes remain all but blinding. 

 

Even when it comes to a point where there is no other choice but to comprehend and acknowledge the truth,tornados of emotions sweep it all away. 

 

Dean returned to the bunker safe and sound after his night and day long binge. In fact, there was a light skip in step, a bounce that had Sam quirking a smile and sighing in relief. The younger knew there was still hard work left, but he held onto that small, thin string of hope for the future. 

  
Even Jack could see the little uplift, igniting his own light. Perhaps Dean was past berating him constantly. Sam did say that the older was a relatively compassionate man.

 

Dean was still shaky. He was trying to counter the trembles with his movements, giving the illusion of pep and perk. He was still intoxicated, on his way to becoming sober—a state he didn’t plan on maintaining for long. 

 

(Dean, in his room, was frowning at the walls. His bloodstream was literally vibrating in his body, and his heart was shrieking against the cage that was his ribs.)

 

Sam and Jack both let some tension loose, the muscles in their shoulders falling just slightly. Relief. Dean’s coming back. Dean’s going be be back. 

 

(The walls were empty and deserted. Dean should be relieved. He’ll be haunted no more.)

 

Oh, how wrong they were. 

 

_ One more time tonight _

 

(Dean wasn’t. Castiel isn’t a haunting. He deserves to be acknowledged more than that, and Dean failed the angel yet again. Like always.)

 

 

 

 

_I'm on the nightrain_

_Bottoms up_

 

The brothers pull up to a hotel, walking out of Baby midst discussion of their next steps. It’s a brief exchange of a few words, and the plan for the next day is planned out within seconds. Dean thumbs at button in his blazer, popping it out, more than ready to change out of the formal wear and into casual, more breathable clothing. He’s still fixated on thinking about the particular kid they had just finished interviewing, the kid’s fear stricken pallor pasted in his brain. 

 

It’s this transfixion that causes him to almost ignorantly agree to Sam’s next statement. 

 

Almost. 

 

Dean pauses, falling a step behind his brother. They’re still on the sidewalk right outside of the front, revolving doors of the hotel. Did Sam just say strip club? 

 

Upon questioning, the younger falters, poorly resting his case. For God’s sake, the kid read reviews for the strip club. 

 

Dean tries. He tries asking why Sam was suddenly acting nice. Too nice. Booze, Agent Page, curly fries, etc. it’s like the younger was tip toeing around Dean, but not to hide, instead to gift. 

 

“Why?” He asks. 

 

Sam shrugs, wearing that dumb face of shock. Dean tries again. 

 

“Why?” 

 

And the younger deflates, defeated. His expression turns serious, calculated, as if to gauge how Dean was about to react. 

 

“You know.” 

 

The kid disappears from Dean’s mind. The man’s face falls. It’s a normal reaction, one that Dean’s given Sam on multiple occasions. A thought runs through his mind and Dean can’t help but wonder, were they really doing this again? 

 

He’s been through this before. He’s fought his way before. He can do it again. He’s actually doing it again. (There’s no one in the walls. The key’s fortified with another lock. Double protection.)

 

He tells Sam that. And the younger doesn’t argue. 

 

Sam never agrees either. 

 

(The new wall is just a curtain. It’s waiting for its call to open up to start the show for everyone around. To show the reality on the big screen.)

 

 

_I'm on the nightrain_

_Fill my cup_

 

Dean’s at a strip club. He’s at the same strip club Sam was droning on about. The Cabdriver? Clamdiner? Caladabadiverdiner?

 

Dean doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember. He can barely remember anything. He’s too busy embarking in a myriad pleasures all at once. 

 

He’s trying everything and anything. There’s an old spark that’s reignited in him. One similar to when Dean was young and foolish and dependent on everything and anything to numb him and his life. To numb the memories of his mother dying, his father hunting, his brother leaving, and people dying. Dying at his hands. (Something questions whether it was time for the curtain call.)

 

Down and down and down. One after another, something keeps on shooting him up or down.

 

Dean sighs. Relief. This is the physical relief he was looking for. (The previews still aren’t done so the curtains remain shut.) The mental high he had been oscillating along was a sweet hum in the back of his head now. Dean needed to come down briefly and plant himself in the physical plane (Mainly for the hunt and Sam, but the older Winchester’s no complainer. He’ll take what he can get.).

 

And so, here Dean is. Again. In such a similar position. His mother died. His father, well, his father is dead too. His brother is dealing with a  nephilim threat so closely that it irks Dean right under his skin (right, because _that’s_ what irks Dean about Jack). And people are still dying. 

 

Dean’s hooded, twisting gaze travels to the side of the bar. 

 

Castiel’s gone.

 

(“It got him dead!”) 

 

For good now. 

 

(There’s no beige in the crowd. Good job Club Cadaver Dryer.) 

 

Dean impulsively rings up for another round. He’s quick to latch onto the nearest person willing to be with him, willing to give him a few, short, rough minutes of their lives. 

 

Dean’s losing himself. So much so that the person he’s with is actually worried. They’re trying to ask if he’s okay, but Dean pushes that aside. 

 

There’s some compliance. Dean feels an erratic rhythm, something stirring in his bloodstream (Here he goes again…). The drugs are finally starting to mix. 

 

First his legs give out. Then his body. Strong arms encircle around him. There’s shouts of concern and Dean mumbles his trademark “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m really fine, [Cas].” 

 

There’s a car engine. Dean’s sitting up now (How he got in the passenger seat isn’t entirely clear. Dean’s the driver of this self-destructive brigade, not the passenger.). The vehicle seems to be picking up speed fast, the turns messy and quick. 

 

Dean protests feebly to wherever he’s going. “I’m really fine, [Cas],” he garbles. “I don’t need medical attention.” 

 

“You’re inebriated. A little too much,” a gruff voice replies. Dean cracks his eyes open, only to close them instantly. He can’t focus on anything now. The night is too bright. He can’t focus on anything. 

 

The car stops and a door opens. He’s dragged out of the car and towards an elevator. 

 

In the midst of the manhandling, Dean catches a glimpse of the beige, trashy car. 

 

The intoxicated man is only capable of snorting. 

 

(What’s with that color anyways?)

 

 

_I'm on the nightrain_

_Ready to crash and burn_

_I never learn_

 

Sam wakes up in the morning, stretching out of bed. He turns to Dean’s side, ready to wake up his brother, only to freeze mid stretch. 

 

His brother isn’t there. There’s not even an imprint of his body in the bed or the blankets. 

 

“Dean?” he calls out, a frantic edge to his voice. A snore answers his call and Sam sighs, his shoulders falling drastically. 

 

The younger musters the energy to peek over the bed and down at his brother sprawled on the floor, evidence of the last night beautiful ordaining the sleepy beauty. 

 

It’s nothing more than a peek before Sam looks away and shakes his head. 

 

Fine? Dean’s never going to learn the definition of that word now, is he?

 

(Or maybe the older just knows it all too well to fool no one but himself. Maybe. Then again, Sam wouldn’t know.) 

 

 

_I'm on the nightrain_

_I love that stuff_

 

There is no desensitization to near death experiences. There is no desensitization to _death_. (How many times has Cas died?) 

 

There is always lying, however. (Beige in the walls.) There is always acting. (Beige on the streets.) There is always the option of a façade, a play, a shroud to hide one’s true feelings behind. (The curtain call will begin after a few more previews.) Dean’s well acquainted to such means of emotional protection—not realizing that they shine brighter than the normal signs of emotions do. 

 

There are too many ghosts in the house. All of which are unbridled, their souls having had stewed and brewed in the ancient haunted mansion long enough. They aren’t going to listen or comply, no matter how pure and innocents the souls were before death. 

 

The brothers need to contact. But breaching the Veil isn’t an easy option—when was it? (If it was, Dean would’ve contacted someone immediately already.) Finding the bodies is their only chance, but even then, the situation has escalated so much that Sam’s not sure they’ll be able to travel a few feet before someone gets injured. He still pushes to look for the bodies. 

 

Dean’s got another alternative. A direct alternative. It’s quick, it’s efficient, it’s _easy_. 

 

“What are you doing?” Sam asks in horror. Whether that be towards Dean’s actions or towards the mayhem in the house, Dean doesn’t pay attention. 

 

“One needle stops the heart, the other restarts it,” Dean grunts. He looks up at Sam, determination and finality in his eyes. “3 minutes. I just need 3 minutes.” 

 

Sam exclaims Dean’s name. But Dean’s already got the needle in his chest. 

 

It’s quick, it’s efficient, it’s _easy_. 

 

Oh lord. It is certainly so easy. 

 

It’s easy to die. 

 

Someone’s cradling Dean’s head. For a moment, just before the older hunter’s eyes glaze over, Dean basks in the simplicity. 

 

It’s so easy to _die_ , isn’t it? (Castiel would know. Dean should ask to see if Cas would agree with him.)

 

And in that moment, he’s in an anticipated bliss. (It’s funny. All those times Dean saw the beige trenchcoated angel around and about, he never saw his face. Maybe now he will.) 

 

The bliss doesn’t come, but the thought certainly lingers. (Behind the curtain, the key slowly begins to give way.)

 

~

 

Later Billy the Reaper will come to know Dean’s willingness to die. Wanting to die. It’ll be the first time the fact is spoken into the air. 

 

Dean won’t argue. Billy will give him advice. It’ll be rational, reasonable, based on tact and intellect. It’ll be the trust of a mighty and powerful being. It’ll be the dependence of a mighty and powerful b—

 

Dean won’t want to agree. Dean will not want to accept it.

 

(If Dean were to ask Castiel about the simplicity behind death, the angel would probably through a philosophical or a sarcastic curveball his way. The hunter decides against the action.)

 

 

_I'm on the nightrain_

_I can never get enough_

 

The two brothers are back on the road. The action and the emotional toll of the hunt has got Sam passed out in the passenger seat, asleep so deep that Dean thinks he can see drool from the corner of his eye. 

 

Dean, himself, has never felt more alert, but in a strange way. He’s aware, aware of everything: the road, his brother, the night, and more. But, he doesn’t think he’s feeling anything. Just a few hours ago, the man had killed himself and felt peace in the action. (He actually thought of Cas and interacting with him, as if their reunion was right around the corner). 

 

An experience like that certainly changes a person. But Dean doesn’t feed the feeling much to allow the change to grow. 

 

The phone rings. Sam stirs a bit, eyes cracking open as a yawn cracks the sleep right out of the boy. He turns and looks at Dean. 

 

Dean picks up the phone, side eyeing Sam, shaking his head in a way to usher Sam into going back to sleep. 

 

“Hello?” 

 

 

_I'm on the nightrain_

_Never to return-no_

 

Dean doesn’t really need to feed that change. It was a self sustaining shift that had started a long time before the hunter injected that serum into his heart. 

 

The reaction just needed a catalyzer. And when Dean picked up that phone, that was all it took. That’s when it happened. 

 

For Dean, reality finally begins to slip. 

 

(The curtains begin to open and the lock begins to turn.) 

 

 

 

 

 

_Loaded like a freight train_

_Flyin' like an aeroplane_

_Speedin' like a space brain_

_One more time tonight_

 

Dean wonders if he’s ever going to learn. It’s a cycle with him. A trend. Love leads to death—and it’s never his own. And then death leads to chaos. 

 

When John Winchester died, Dean shattered a car. He was attempting to fix the car, but, in the flurry of emotions struck by the fact that he couldn’t say his dad (and the fact that the one and only thing his dad did for him was die), he smashed a car. 

 

When Sam Winchester was close to death (on many occasions), Dean shattered the world (multiple times). Again, he tried to fix the situations. There was always a way, Dean would say. There was always a way. It was a mantra, a sick mantra too. It was one that fixated Dean and drove him to limits he never thought he’d reach (limits he never wanted to reach). 

 

When Castiel died, Dean shattered himself. The pieces were already put together haphazardly from the multitude of agonizing events prior to Cas’ death. But, as the angel took his last breath, there was an instant where each and every scaffolding gave way. Dean tried to retain the crash, the explosion, keeping it all locked up in himself. 

 

He tried his best.

 

But the world had had enough. And Baby never deserved to be beat in the first place. 

 

And that left him. And so there Dean was, in pieces, with no intent to fix anything again. 

 

And so, here Dean is, with no intent to fix anything again. 

 

Sam seems to have it handled. 

 

 

_I'm on the nightrain_

_And I'm lookin' for some_

 

Dean’s in withdrawal.

 

Alcohol won’t cut it. Drugs are a possibility, but not in the sense Dean’s hoping for. General debauchery will barely fill the craving. 

 

(Dean thinks that faceless spector has returned. The one with the trench coat and the suit.)

 

 

_I'm on the nightrain_

_So's I can leave this slum_

 

He knows what he needs. He knows how much he wants it (Does he really?). And there’s many ways to get there.

 

 

_I'm on the nightrain_

_And I'm ready to crash and burn_

 

He’s just not sure which way to go. Figuratively, it isn’t up to him. But literally, there’s a good chance that it is. Billie has told him that, hasn’t she? “Keep on living,” she had said, in the tone that it was his choice to live. 

 

Well, if it was his choice to live. Then there’s another option on the table, isn’t there?

 

(The spector disappears again. Maybe Dean should chase after it next time.) 

 

 

_Nightrain_

_Bottoms up_

 

But Dean knows better. And so he fills another, more familiar craving with the pop of a bottle, a tip of his head and a large gulp of beer. 

 

He could go stronger. Dean reasons that for the first time it’s the safer option. 

 

But he doesn’t. 

 

(He’s going to wait it out to see if the spector returns. If it does, then Dean will take the chance and chase.) 

 

 

_I'm on the nightrain_

_Fill my cup_

 

He’s on the floor. The cold hard floor.

 

Nothing. He’s thinking nothing. 

 

He’s seeing. He’s seeing someone. 

 

But maybe he’s not seeing. Dean thinks he’s hearing him. 

 

 

_I'm on the nightrain_

_Whoa yeah_

 

That phone call. That phone call, Dean revels. He laughs, shaking his head, wincing at his physical condition. He ignores the blatant signs of the alcohol poisoning, returning back to his thought (He’s somewhat surprised he was able to pick it up). 

 

That phone call. It’s funny how the brain, when so agonized by grief, is able to create such vivid experiences and images. Dean’s been through it before, constantly hearing what would seem like the voice of a dead loved one or even sometimes mistaking them in the crowd. 

 

Vivid, is what Dean calls these brief moments of heart crushing despair. (The beige was vivid.) 

 

Vivid, was that phone call. Dean stills, the lip of the beer bottle atoms away from his own lips. (The spector was vivid.) 

 

Vivid may not be the right word. Dean remains still, looking for another word. He’s got one, but he doesn’t dare use that. (Acknowledgement is the key here, but Dean won’t ever dare to turn that lock on his own. Little does he know, the gears are already turning and Pandora’s box is close to opening.) 

 

Vivid is the only word. 

 

_I'm on the nightrain_

_Love that stuff_

 

Jack comes by to see Dean on the floor, eyes glazed over. He remains in the doorway, sorrow written all over his features. The kid’s half angel, and thus, he’s got the angelic power of empathy.

 

It’s painful. Dean’s in nothing but pain. Jack can’t find a speck of life in the pain. There’s no relief, no crutch, nothing. Just ruthless, definition pain. 

 

Dean empties another bottle while Jack remains in the doorway. Heightened senses indicate that he’s been watch but drugged senses instruct him to not react. (Vivid.) 

 

It’s nice, not having to react. 

 

_I'm on the nightrain_

_An I can never get enough_

 

Dean closes his eyes. He knows he’s going to have to open them. But, the darkness beyond his eyelids is welcoming, warm, and inviting. 

 

The darkness is empty. 

 

And Dean thinks he’ll fit just right in. 

 

 

 

_Ridin' the nightrain_

(The curtains are opening.)

 

 

_I guess I_

_I guess, I guess, I guess_

_I never learn_

 

_Real_. Dean was looking for the word real. 

 

The phone call was real. 

 

Dean thinks he’s not real. (Vivid.) 

 

 

_On the nightrain_

_Float me home_

 

The bunker doors open. And then they close. Sam must have gone out to get something.

 

The bunker doors had opened and then closed. Dean thinks it like it’s a fact. He tries to think it into a fact. 

 

Dean had started to think that he’s not real. 

 

Now he’s questioning the bunker. 

 

 

_Ooh I'm on the nightrain_

 

There’s walking. It’s not Sam’s walking. Sam walks lankily. Sam walks strange. Dean thinks it’s because of the younger’s “healthy” lifestyle, primarily the physical regime, that he’s got a skip in his step. 

 

Then again, Dean wouldn’t know. 

 

The footsteps come closer. Dean’s heart screams like it’s a horror movie. 

 

Dean drinks some more. 

 

He knows those footsteps. 

 

But he isn’t real. The bunker isn’t real. 

 

So the footsteps are probably not real. 

 

 

_Ridin' the nightrain_

 

Someone walks in. Dean’s still on the floor. The someone walks past the doorway. Dean’s still on the floor. 

 

He’s not going to react, because he doesn’t have to. 

 

Plus, it wasn’t real. 

 

He wasn’t real, so nothing was. 

 

 

_Never to return_

 

Vivid. 

 

That’s all Dean’s going to say. 

 

Vivid.

 

That’s all Dean’s going to think. 

 

Because he does react. And when he does, the phone call comes to life in front of him. 

 

Dean’s tired. Dean’s ready. Dean’s craving. 

 

Nothing is real. 

 

Yet, vividly, _he’s_ there. 

 

 

_Nightrain_

 

Shatters can be put together and glued. The integrity of the fix isn’t based on the intensity of the primary destruction, but the strength of the glue and the forthcoming security that goes along with the effort of putting so many pieces together. 

 

Castiel stands just above Dean Winchester, the shadow of his figure looming over Dean, casting darkness upon the Winchester. The angel would move, but the relief in Dean’s face and body prompts him not to. 

 

(Dean’s lock is opened and the curtains are drawn. Tears stream down the audience’s eyes as they look at the pure heart of the hunter in pain.) 

 

“Hello Dean,” Castiel whispers. 

 

(Dean’s seeing the spector’s face for the first time. He got his chance and he chased.)

 

“Cas?” Dean’s voice cracks. He tries to move, but his current emotional and physical state causes him to remain on the ground. 

 

(Castiel is there. In front of him. In all his stupid beige and angelic glory.) 

 

The angel takes a moment before he shakes his head and moves forward. He leans foward, eyes never leaving Dean’s, as he reaches for the newly opened bottle in Dean’s hand. Taking it away, Castiel straightens out and takes a swig. 

 

(Spectors don’t do that. This isn’t vivid, this is real, Dean marvels.)

 

The angel kneels to the ground and scoots around until he’s lying down right next to Dean. He turns so that his electric blue eyes and lock with the forest green ones again. 

 

(Lightning literally strikes Dean’s heart, burning all the walls down.) 

 

And Castiel’s hand brushes against Dean’s, sending a sharp spike up the hunter’s spine. 

 

Real. 

 

This is real. 

 

Castiel is real and so is the bunker and so is Dean. 

 

_This_ was real. 

 

And Dean finally cries. 

 

(It’s a happy cry. One that earns him a hug from the angel and a lot more love after that too, shooting the two on a journey in a loaded freight train, flying them around like an airplane with emotions so strong that Dean feels like a space brain a million more times each night.) 

 

_Nighttrain, Guns N Roses_

**Author's Note:**

> again, i hope you liked it! i may edit it a little more in the next day or two, but otherwise yeah. this was actually fun to write despite how weird and choppy it came out to be. 
> 
> follow me on tumblr! 
> 
> main: uselessspork  
> writing: epeolatrii
> 
> or even twitter!  
> main: uselessspork


End file.
